So Relied Upon
by radiosweetheart
Summary: Updated 12 October. Chapter 3. News from home throws a wrench into Jimmy's orderly college life. Problems of the past threaten to resurface. It's a bit dark and it gets darker in future chapters.
1. Scattered Pictures

So Relied Upon-Prelude 

**Scattered Pictures**

"He's a good boy," Mrs. Spencer, the kindergarten teacher, reassured his parents. The adults sat in tiny chairs around a low table. "He's really very intelligent."

"Oh, thank goodness. We were worried he was acting up. He comes home and talks on and on. I worried he had that much to say during the day." The relief was clear in his mother's voice.

"Far from it, he barely speaks at all. He spends most of the day in his seat, staring at the table. He refuses to play games with the rest of the children. He seems bored by everything on my lesson plan. He got angry at another child last week when she couldn't write her name. It really upset the girl."

"He's been reading since he was three. He's known the alphabet since he could talk. He didn't even learn to speak like the other boys, he started with complete sentences." His father's pride was evident.

"That's what he told me. Precocious little thing, isn't he?"

The couple smiled. Their older sons were handfuls, but they'd never done anything warranting a conference in the second month of school. James was special, the kind of special parents hoped for. "Why did you call us here, Mrs. Spencer?"

"After speaking with Ms. Keys, we've decided Jimmy might be better off going straight to first grade. He could possibly advance to second grade, but we think he's too young. Matt might have something to say about his baby brother joining him in second grade, too. Despite how smart he is, he still should be allowed to be a little boy. He could acclimatize to first grade. He may not be challenged, but he won't be as bored."

His mother wanted to be excited, but she couldn't help but worry about her little boy. She had seen the spark in his eyes when he learned a new skill. The first time he read a book on his own, he cornered and read to anyone that would sit still. She had watched him try to play with the neighborhood kids. He would attempt to explain the rules of the latest game he had mastered. His anger would grow until his face would turn red. The games always ended with Jimmy leaving without giving his playmates an explanation. When she watched these scenes she would worry about her baby.

"Will it be a big deal? Can he just join the class without an announcement?"

"Children need explanation, Mrs. Wilson, they get confused," Mrs. Spencer explained.

"James isn't a China vase, Laura. He can take care of himself."

"He's barely five, he shouldn't have to take care of himself," Laura answered.

They decided he would join the first grade class right after the Columbus day weekend. It would lessen the adjustment if the class had been away for awhile.

"Mom, what if the kids don't like me? The other kids don't like me."

"Of course they like you, baby."

"No, they don't. They look at me mean." He was sitting on the floor, his tiny arms wrapped around Charlie, the dachshund. Charlie tried to squirm out of the hold, but there was no escaping the little boy death grip in which he was held. "No one likes me."

"Oh, Jimmy, you're such a good boy. How could someone not like you?" She knelt down beside her son and pried his arms lose from the distraught dog. He grasped at the beast as it scurried away, but his mother caught his hands. "Baby, just be your sweet self and no one could ever dislike you. Just be nice, sweetie. That's all anyone could ever want."

His brothers were in the living room playing a serious game of Connect 4. The checkers were spread out on the coffee table, cookie crumbs and barely touched glasses on of Tang dotted the tabletop landscape. An episode of the _Brady Bunch_played quietly on the TV.

"Matt?"

"Not now, Jimmy, we're busy. I've kicked Tommy's butt two times out of three and he's about to lose again.'

"You wish." The oldest Wilson boy picked up a red checker and dropped it into the bottom center space on the plastic board. Matt followed suit and two minutes of frantic game piece dropping later Tommy had Matt in a headlock and was administering the traditional round of 'Loser Noogies.'

Jimmy watched his brothers until they seemed to be done. "Can I talk now?" he asked

"What, Shrimp?" Tommy grabbed Jimmy by the neck and pulled him into noogie position.

"They're making me go to first grade," he squeaked.

"You're still a kindergarten baby, you can't go to first grade, that's for big kids." Matt was in second grade after all. He knew about the big kids. Tommy was already in fourth grade, so he was practically a grown up as far as Jimmy was concerned.

"Well, Mom said she and Daddy and Mrs. Spencer want me to not be in kindergarten anymore. I'm scared the kids won't like me 'cuz I'm a shrimp."

Tommy punched his baby brother in the arm, "Anyone that doesn't like you will have to talk to me. Just 'cuz you're a baby doesn't mean you're rotten to be around."

"A kid that doesn't like you is a dummy. You tell me about any mean kids and my friends and me will fix 'em.," said Matt.

"You promise? You'd fix 'em for me?" Jimmy smiled.

"Sure, kid. But you won't need us. For a little brother you're a good guy. Just don't act so smart all the time and you'll have lots of friends."

He started first grade a couple of weeks later. His mind raced as he walked into the classroom that first day. "Be a nice boy, everyone will like you. Don't act so smart. We'll fix anyone that messes with, ya, don't worry. You're a big boy now, Jim, make us proud."

He learned there were ways to get what he wanted from people. Listen to a girl talk and she would share her lunch, maybe even give him her chocolate chip cookies. Be a good sport whether he won or lost and the boys wanted him on his team. He liked this kind of attention. Before the class left for winter break he had almost made the class forget that he hadn't been there all the time.

c


	2. Dust Out the Demons Inside

**  
So Relied Upon-Chapter 1: **

**Dust out the demons inside**

Desire to excel was the high octane fuel he needed to drive on He could barely remember a time when he had operated at the same rate as the other kids his age. That's why he'd started working at 15. He didn't have to, he wanted to. The money was useful, but more than that he wanted some kind of autonomy he felt he lacked. It gave him something that belonged to him. The paycheck gave him some financial freedom. The job bought him an identity away from his family. He wasn't just Tom and Matt's brother or Laura and Thomas's son. The people he worked with didn't know anything about him that he didn't let them know.

His parents would swear they never pushed him but he always felt like he had something to prove. He'd never been able to put his finger on what it was, but he knew that it was real and a large building block of his identity. His mother never ran out of good things to say about him. Thomas Wilson was often heard stating that his youngest was a "chip off the old block." Jimmy just kept moving. He did what he felt was expected. Long hours of school and work filled the time. Some days he started so early that if there had been a rooster nearby he could've told the bird when it was time to wake the rest of the family."

Any diversion from his course as dutiful son caused his parents to register concern. They couldn't believe that he would work as hard as he did without regards to saving for the future. They didn't see that the job was just a distraction. The work he did afforded him no responsibility. That was the appeal. The mental relaxation outweighed the financial payments.

The job was immediate. His ability to work a cash register and engage customers in friendly conversation were not skills he considered imperative to his future success. Payday meant treating the girl of the moment to dinner and a movie. Paychecks rarely lasted past the weekend.

"Don't you think you should save more of your money from your job? If you spend it all on girls what'll it get you?"

"Laid, if I'm lucky," he'd thought, but he didn't have the nerve to say. His attempts at sex hadn't made it beyond a couple of groping, sloppy trips to third base. He wanted more. Convincing a woman to sleep with him was goal. Something else to be conquered and perfected.

A blip, a misplaced piece of reality on the rim of a dream. He awoke, startled and disoriented. His mind searched for some misplaced, vital, piece of information. He sat up and stared at the darkness. The room offered no answer. He fell back against his pillow.

He couldn't shake that unnamed nagging feeling. It _was_ just a feeling at first. During his classes, his hand would reach down towards his bag. He would casually root around for some object he was unaware he had misplaced. The back of his skull ached with a near revelation. He almost could make out the answer, but it was too blurry.

At nighttime the dull sensation in the back the of his head became a scream. The dark, quiet, suburban house held a battle. He was Blue and the Gray, the Axis and the Allies. No, it wasn't that clear cut, he was Spy vs. Spy from Mad Magazine. Two sides of one image, fighting an unnamed battle with no clear goal. He came to dread how his attempts at rest would awaken new sparks of anxiety. Not resting. So many nights he found no rest. Fighting the hot blue flashes and the melting greens and oranges that came after a mental yell. His brain created burst of color when he tried to drown out the half-formed thoughts that clawed into his brain, holding on tighter and with greater ferocity as the restless nights piled one on top of the other. He couldn't sleep. There was no sleeping with that going on.

Even without sleep school offered no challenge. His rest deprived brain retained the necessary information. Tests gave him a sense of calm satisfaction. He finished quickly. When he was done, he flipped the paper over and put his head down on his desk. He was able to relax. Sleeping was easy then, he was in control. Questions and answers. Facts and figures. Those things he controlled. He learned to love the physical. Tangible entities, based on proof, masses in a space and time that he could see or touch or manipulate. It was the other that kept him up at night. The thing he couldn't explain. He knew this _thing_ didn't belong to anyone but him. As much as it bothered him he didn't mention it to any of his friends, or God forbid, his parents. It was his and he would adjust.

"James, can you stay after class?" his English teacher asked.

He waited at his desk as the room emptied.

"Your essays were very interesting. Very unique take on the questions and subject matter. I was particularly impressed with your points about Vonnegut's **Cat's Cradle**."

"Thank you, I appreciate that," he managed a smile as he prepared to leave.

"I would've been much more impressed if I'd asked you about that book. That's not even on the reading list this year."

"I read. I can't sleep, so I read."

"You don't seem to have much trouble sleeping, in my class. When I looked at you today you looked ready to fall off your chair. Your eyes were completely glazed over,' she sounded concerned.

At first it scared him to watch the chalk melt down the board. The green of the chalk board lit up with the sparks from the friction created by the falling letters. It was lack of sleep, that's all. Not like he was going crazy or anything. He would concentrate harder on his notes, writing every word the teacher said and refusing to look back toward the board. But he always would look back. There was no way not to. The words would reassemble. It became part of the school experience. In order to survive, he adapted.

_Nothing's changed. The words are right where they always were. Everything is just like it's always been._

_You know that's not true. You saw it too._

_I know I'm not letting you act crazy_.

_I know what I saw._

_You do know crazy people talk to themselves, right?_

_Shut up. Just shut the hell up._

Appearances were everything.

"You may not feel marvelous, but darling, you look marvelous," he would remark to his reflection in his best Billy Crystal voice. "It is better to look good than to feel good."

He would be in the bathroom before anyone else was up, fixing his shirt, polishing his loafers to a perfect shine, styling his hair to fall in just the right way. High school wasn't the place to show weakness. The perfect specimen of American preppy, his wardrobe was straight from the Alex P. Keaton catalogue. He was smart, and handsome and the future had no visible limitations.

The open refrigerator cast a thin weak line of light across the kitchen. Another nightmare, another sleepless night. Jimmy rested his arm on the top of the door. He pulled out a plate of leftovers and orange juice. He shut the door and carried the food over to the kitchen table. No one was awake to bitch at him to use a glass. He drank straight from the carton and picked at the chicken with his fingers.

The soft, whining sound of the screen door startled him out of his daze. He got quickly up and walked toward the entry way. A soft sound that Jimmy took to be the lifting and lowering of the lid on the mailbox proceeded the click of the key turning in the lock.

Tom walked into the house. He moved slowly, determined to stealthily get in and out without being noticed. Jimmy stood in the darkened kitchen and watched his brother move down the hall and into the living room. Rustles and blind shuffling sounds were barely audible from the other room. Taking a cue from his brother Jimmy quietly made his way into the doorway between the living room and the hallway. Tom had taken his father's cigar box off of the bookshelf. He opened the box and began rustling through the contents.

"What are you doing?"

Tom flinched. "Jimmy, what the fuck are you doing up?"

"I asked first."

"I left something here the last time I was over, I just stopped by for it." Tom sat the box down on the end table. Placing a hand on the back of the recliner, he attempted a casual stance.

"It's three in the morning, Tom. This time of night people need two things, sleep or bail money." He walked over to his brother. A wad of crumbled bills had fallen onto the table. Even in the dark he could see enough to know there was something wrong. "What's going on?"

"Nothing you need to know, kid." Tom turned his head away from his brother and began to feel his way out of the living room.

Jimmy winced at his brother's last word. "Don't assume you've got the family market cornered on fucked up Big Brother." The last two words came out as a whispered snarl. This animosity caused Tom to stop. Jimmy was trembling. His eyes were closed tight. The palms of his hands pressed against his temples. It was hard enough acting like there was nothing wrong with him. He couldn't cover for his brother as well.

Tom walked over and put his hands on Jimmy's shoulders. "I'm not your problem, Jim. Whatever's screwing with you, I'm not part of it." He squeezed his brother's arms and turned to leave.

"Tom…" Jimmy followed his brother out onto the porch. His brother didn't respond as he walked down the path towards his car. Jimmy stood on the porch and watched as the Oldsmobile pulled away from the curb and drove in darkness to the end of the street. Tom flicked the headlight on as he turned the corner. Jimmy turned around and went back into the house.

Spring break of that year his parents insisted he take some time off and relax. His aunt and uncle lived near the Jersey shore and offered their spare bedroom. He'd been working close to 30 hours a week. His grades were impressive. They said he deserved a rest. He agreed, he needed to rest. He politely declined the invitation from his aunt and uncle. Most of his spring break he stayed in his room asleep or watching whatever channel he could pick up on the portable TV. His mother would knock on the door and ask if he'd like to come down to dinner. After a couple of days he wasn't sure he was answering her, or if he really heard her asking. A couple of times, he was pretty sure he joined them.

Sleep. When sleep came it crashed into him, knocked him down and left him powerless to do anything. The next morning, or evening, afternoon, it didn't matter what time it was. He didn't have anywhere he needed to be, or anywhere to go. Those days, he would wake up, his body would be telling him to move, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. His arms felt fixed, like he was tied to the bed. His legs were rendered immobile by some unknown force. He would stay there, wishing the feeling wouldn't end. If he was paralyzed he would be free. It sounded crazy but he had it all figured out. If he couldn't move like he was supposed to he wouldn't have to fight. No one expects a cripple to behave normally. He wouldn't have to worry about looking normal or fitting in, he could be different and act out and it would all be the fault of something tangible. A disability. A physical disability seemed easier to handle. Some visible problem upon which he could blame an invisible trauma.

Hot, heavy streaks of weakness streaked down his face leaving damp stains on his pillow. In his search for proof that there was something physically wrong with him, he could only produce tears. Alone, he allowed himself the luxury of self-pity. His mother's footsteps down the hall broke his revelry. He tossed his leaden body towards the wall. She couldn't see this, _he_ couldn't cry. No, he's a strong boy. He wouldn't worry anyone.

"Would you come down for breakfast? I made your favorite. Warm maple syrup and eggs, too."

"Not this morning, Mom."

Did he sound all right? He thought that he did

"Could you bring them up here?

She did, everyday that week she'd brought him meals if he didn't get up to join the family. When she came to take away the plate the look in her eyes was the look of every worried mother since before Mary had fretted Jesus was spending too much time out in the desert.

"You look pale. I'll bring you another sandwich."

He'd changed the channel to _The Joker's Wild _and told her he was fine.

"Just tired, Ma."

The pressure in the back of his head left like it had arrived. He didn't even realize he wasn't feeling it until he couldn't place when last it had been there. He finished his final year of high school without any further incidents. Everything was the way it was supposed to be.


	3. Welcome to the Jungle

**Welcome to the Jungle**

University life was supposed to be a difficult adjustment. It could have just been that he didn't take the time to think about any difficulties he was supposed to experience. His first day on campus he'd walked into his dorm with no thought but that he would conquer the next stage of his life. Just as he had succeeded at everything else. He was determined to be more than a success in his studies. He aimed for phenomenon. No longer forced to concentrate on maintaining a façade of the carefree young man, he was free to dive into books and classes with the monomaniacal intensity of an addict trying to get contact his dealer. He loved the freedom of being able work at any hour without having to explain himself. On the days when he feared that he would be dragged into the undertow of coursework he didn't have to come up with a reason for his silence. His classmates soon learned o stay away if they saw Jimmy surrounded by stacks of books and notes in the back of the dining hall. He was too busy carrying on a conversation with himself to be bothered with human interaction.

"So, how's college life, little brother?" Matt asked.

"At the moment, it sucks. I had to drop my Tuesday night Lit course—you know, the one I convinced my advisor to let me take."

"Good! I'm glad you dropped at _least_ one class. I'd say you should drop another two or three. Relax, Jim, there's no competition. I don't care if you're more successful than me. And I doubt Tom gives a shit. You can always take that class in summer school if you can't stand being less than a semester ahead," his brother's laugh carried out of the payphone's handset. Matt was teasing, but summer school was a serious consideration.

Staying as far ahead as possible was part of the plan. Not that he really knew what that plan was leading toward, or if it was a plan, a path or some other predetermined, unexamined course from which he was unable to divert himself . But he was certain that it was important to keep his eyes in the general direction of where he thought the prize might be located.

Matt was as close as Jimmy got to unbiased information about what was happening back home. He sensed that his parents edited out important details and Tom never called. "What's Tom been up to?" he made a point of asking that question at some point during each phone conversation. "I haven't talked to him in months."

"You and everyone else. He comes and goes. Margie's a saint for putting up with him."

When he talked to his brother the conversations ran a predictable course. Matt would pick on Jimmy for working too hard. They would talk about the family or mutual acquaintances. Jimmy would give a vague description of what he was doing at school. But it was easier if no one went into much detail.

Tom was nowhere to be seen when he'd been home for the summer after his second year at university. Jimmy wondered if his brother was pissed off at him. Matt told him not to take it personally.

"He's just busy is all. Margie's pregnancy has him lighting fires everywhere he can. Talked to him about two weeks ago, he sounded tired. Mom says Margie seemed really distracted when they had lunch the other day. But what do you expect, the girl's carrying around a kid. That would distract me."

"Yeah. I should try to get a hold of him. But I'll be home for break Nothing much to report anyway. At any rate, doubt he cares that my prof is a bastard or how sick I am of cafeteria food."

He was facing down the end of the 1980s. Edging towards, and then hitting, the two decade on the planet mark and only a few credits shy of senior status. Nothing was going to slow him from starting med school before he could buy a legal drink. If he ever paused for a moment and thought about it, he would've probably felt extremely proud of himself.

"Hey, Jim, you want to go down to the Union?" Scott, his roommate asked. "They're showing _A Fish Called Wanda _at the theatre."

"I've got work." Piles of books and note cards surrounded him.

"Jesus, put away the books and relax a little. Try not being such a tight ass. It's practically a Python reunion, how do you pass that up?"

"I pass it up by having work."

"You're pissier than usual. When was the last time you left this closet and did something fun?"

"Just go to the damn movie. I have a paper to write and if you're not here I can work in peace."

Conversations like that became normal. Scott stopped bothering to ask him to go places. People wondered if he was all right. Once, the subject had come up over lunch and he brushed off. But he decided to make a point of being social, if only to avoid conversations like that.

A couple of times a month he would go out. Always in well planned bursts of spontaneity, with as many friends and acquaintances around as possible. He'd listen to conversations for details about the Thursday night bar crawl and show up in time for the second or third round. He equipped himself with a fake ID. The drinking lightweights were already on their way to idiocy by then and the professionals were happy to have fresh blood to add to the round buying pool. The girls were more relaxed by that time, too. That was a benefit. He got drunk on over-priced watered down beer and punctuated his comments with the ever present Camel cigarette. Smoking was one thing he wasn't proud of, and he'd never let on to his parents that he'd acquired that addiction. He knew what smoking did to a body He'd seen the pictures and read the horror stories. He knew it didn't match his chosen profession. Deadly addictions clashed with white lab coats. The idea of offering the patient a Chesterfield cigarette before delivering bad news gave him dark amusement. At that moment in his life smoking was relaxing, and it was how he'd met most of his friends. "Gotta light?" was a foolproof ice breaker. Too busy with studying any other time, when he was standing out front of the campus buildings with the other smokers it was only polite to share witticisms in between drags.

It was outside of the Page, the sci-tech hall, that he met Lily. She'd bummed a cigarette off him and they'd stood smoking and watching passing coeds for close to a minute and a half before he'd realize she was in his OCHEM class. She sat in the second row on the left side of the room. He sat three rows behind her. He didn't recognize her, so he didn't think about where she sat. He saw the textbook.

"You're in Stephens' OCHEM, then?" he'd asked.

"Wondered if you would recognize me," she smiled.

"I recognized the book." He took a drag from his cigarette and watched a couple on bicycles weave through the crowd on their way to a class somewhere else on campus.

She smiled and brushed a few stray hairs off her cheek. "Charmer. You must have women falling all over you. How do you fend them off?" She was teasing him, flirting, trying to draw him into the game. He didn't take the bait. She inhaled the cigarette and brushed his arm lightly as she lowered her hand. Taking a step closer to him she attempted to look into his eyes, but he stared somewhere across the green. "Hey, what're you thinking about that's so important?"

"I don't have time for this shit," he tossed the butt onto the concrete and ground it into the sidewalk. He turned and opened the institutional glass doors of Page Hall and headed towards his chemistry class.

"He's a moody son of a bitch, isn't he?" asked one of the other smokers.

A moody son of a bitch. That was one way to put it. He probably would have just called himself focused.

Two weeks before winter break, right in the midst of preparation for finals, Matt called.

"You talked to Mom or Dad?" he'd asked.

"Not in the last couple of days, something up?"

"Margie had the baby last night."

"This early? No one bothered to call me. That's really nice. I might not live there anymore but I'm still a member of the damn family.," He was angrier than he should've been. "Jesus, Matt."

His brother sighed. "I'm calling now, Jimmy. No one­­-" his speaking didn't trail off. It just stopped.

A knowing infected his blood and his bones. "The baby," he whispered. His throat grew tight as he braced himself for the inevitable news. His fingers wrapped around the collar of his shirt. He pulled down on the fabric. A button popped off and fell to the floor. It landed with a flat _tic, _hardly any sound at all but it filled Jimmy's head

"He was stillborn," his brother's voice was ragged.

"Goddammit. I'll come home."

"You have work."

Emotion stuck in his throat. Whether it was anger, sadness, confusion or a combination didn't matter. He thought he should cry, but not where everyone could see him. "And I have a family…I was supposed to be someone's uncle. Fuck school."

"Stay away as long as you can, little brother. You don't want to be here. It's better if you're not." He sounded beyond sad or tired. There was a new tone to his voice. "Mom told me to make sure you know you're not to come home until break."

"She makes it sound like I'm still eight years old. I don't get a say in this?" He closed his eyes and raised his free hand to the side of his head. He curled his fingers into a fist. His attempt at a deep breath made his body shake, his lungs catch. His chest ached. He was dizzy.

"For fuck's sake, Jimmy. You don't want to see this, okay?" Matt's voice was loud. "What's going on here, it's….It sucks and if you're lucky you won't ever have to see it first hand."

They didn't speak for a moment. Jimmy tried to regain his composure. "What's Tom doing?"

"I don't know," Matt's answer came out like a sigh.

"How do you not know?" The tears he refused to shed fought his decision.

"I haven't seen him since he left the hospital last night. He isn't home or at Mom and Dad's."

After graduating from high school Tom had gone on a three week road trip. Until he'd been gone for nearly two days without calling no one had worried.. Everyone agreed he was a little impulsive. His actions were thoughtless, but not vindictive. Three days after he left he'd called from a hotel in Indiana. He said he wanted to see the country while there was still time. His father had screamed at him and his mother had calmly implored him to be careful. Matt and Jimmy decided amongst themselves their brother was the definition of cool. He was a rebel, like James Dean or Dally Winston. In the following years that had been his pattern, leaving without notice, returning without explanation.

"You don't think he's gone off again, do you?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Shit."

Tom didn't come home during the preparations. While the family mourned the loss of the child, he was just the unasked question that filled one of the empty spots at the table. Stuck several hundred miles away with huge amounts of work and very little time to do it, Jimmy had no time for proper sadness. Nor did he know how. He tried to trudge through the days, with no thought of anything but work.

The first two nights he sat in the common area of the dorm watching television

"Are you watching this?" someone was blocking his view of the screen.

The television was on, he could see it. That qualified as watching, but he had no idea what was playing. "No," he answered.

Earlier in the day, he'd smuggled a in a bottle of bourbon. He had been making regular trips to his room to dilute his Coke. By the time Letterman began his Top Ten list the drink was liquor and ice.

He was completely wasted.

That was what he was going for.


End file.
